


You Belong Together

by WorseOmens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Fusion (Steven Universe), Humour, Idiots in Love, M/M, but they don’t know it yet, not quite a crossover, they will don’t worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 09:48:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20691497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Adam is sick, and his powers are getting out of control. One afternoon, after a few too many episodes of his favourite cartoon, something strange happens to his godfathers...(Fusion fic - Crowley & Aziraphale)





	1. Tadfield's Coldest Winter

Tadfield was cocooned in snow. It was the usual December weather, close to Christmas-time. Wreaths adorned doorways, candles flickered in windowsills and the fairy lights glittered from in-between boughs of fir. The streets were always quieter this time of year. Darkness fell early, and no parent wanted their children out in the cold for too long. That wasn't the only reason, however...

The lightbulbs flickered in the Young household. Mrs Young complained, and her husband reassured her that it was just a power surge. Another one... Above their heads, Adam wiped his nose. He had sneezed. 

His powers had gone haywire ever since he got sick. Every time he sneezed, electronics failed. Every time he shivered, the house around him creaked and groaned. Sometimes, he'd have nightmare, only to awake and find that they had bled into reality somehow. He'd dreamt that Pepper's house had flooded, only to hear the next morning that all the pipes in her walls had burst. He'd been too sheepish to say anything. The next night, he'd gone to sleep, and found himself in the kitchen, trying to find Narnia in the cupboards. His mother had awoken him this time; he had been sleepwalking, and almost succeeded in wedging himself under the worktop alongside the Tupperware containers. That seemed fairly normal, but he'd been picking autumnal leaves out of his hair for half an hour afterwards.

He settled under his sheets, hoping for a peaceful night. Dog curled up by his feet, ever loyal, even now. The comforting weight of his sheets swaddled him, and in the familiar surroundings of his bedroom, he drifted to sleep easily. 

Anathema enjoyed late nights. While Newt was asleep upstairs, she stayed awake, padding around the house with a mug of herbal tea. The quiet was soothing. Outside, downy tufts of snow drifted to the ground, giving Tadfield a gentle top-up of wintertime magic. She smiled. All was well. 

There was a rustle behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, frowning. There was a pause. Then, softly, a steady rhythmic sound. It was footsteps. 

She set her mug on the table, careful not to make a sound. Breadknife in hand, she crept toward the door. It was coming from the hallway. It could be Newt, or... or it could be something else. Without prophecies to guide her, Anathema had no safety net anymore. It made her paranoid, sometimes. 

A shadow reared up into view. It drew closer, larger, stretching and distorting into horrid shapes. She gripped the knife with both hands. Deep breaths, deep breaths... 

Blade outstretched, she leapt into the hallway. 

Even by the strained moonlight through the window, she knew that scruffy head of hair anywhere. "Adam?" she said, dropping the knife by her side. Adrenaline still prickled in her veins. She remained wary. "How did... How did you get in here? It's nearly midnight, you should be at home."

He didn't respond. His face was deep in shadow and, for a moment, she wondered if his true nature was shining through again. Tentatively, she reached over and flicked on the light switch. The relief was tangible. He was sleepwalking.

She extended her hand over to him, gripping his shoulder. He startled awake immediately, stumbling backward, eyes wide. "Wh - where - ?"

"Adam, hey, calm down. It's me, Anathema," she said soothingly, holding him still and forcing him to focus. "You were sleepwalking."

He blinked. "All the way here?"

She frowned. Glancing down, she saw that his bare feet were completely dry, without a hint of snow on them. He certainly didn't feel like he'd been out in the cold weather, and she hadn't heard any doors open. 

"Maybe you... teleported?"

He let out a long groan. "I remember now," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I dreamt I was here, trying to find you... I can't control my powers anymore. I'm too ill."

The witch paled. Unsettled by the notion, she made him some chamomile tea, and set him up with a comic book in the kitchen. She left an answerphone message when Adam's parents didn't pick up, explaining that he'd managed to sleepwalk halfway across Tadfield, but was safe and sound with her. Next, the fail safe. She'd hoped she wouldn't ever have to do this again, but needs must.

This time, someone answered. "Hello? Who is this? I do hope you realise the hour!" they said haughtily.

"Aziraphale, it's me," she said quickly, glancing over her shoulder toward the kitchen. 

"Who?"

"Anathema Device," she said. There was a long silence. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

"I'm afraid not," the angel admitted. She could practically hear him sheepishly fiddling with the telephone wire. "Would you be a dear and jog my memory? I'm terribly old, you see."

She rolled her eyes. He was old, sure, but he hadn't aged. It was just an excuse. "I'm the book girl," she said.

"Hm... Yes, of course."

"You still don't know, do you?" she huffed, putting her free hand on her hip. 

"Haven't the foggiest, no," he replied, more readily this time. He hadn't seen her since the Tadfield airbase, despite having kept in touch with Adam.

"You and your boyfriend hit me with your car," she said sharply.

"Oh! Yes, bicycle girl, I remember now," he said, sounding very pleased with himself to have dredged his memory. "Is there a problem? Would you like the gears on your bike back?"

"Wha - ? No," she said, brow furrowed. "I'm calling about Adam. Something's wrong."

The phone line crackled for a long moment. "Oh, dear."

Adam's parents had rung Anathema back, asking if she could take care of their boy until the snow eased. It wasn't safe to drive, not even across the village. This winter had seen the deepest snow and thickest ice in decades, moving slowly from Christmas wonderland to frozen hell. 

The Bentley parked outside Jasmime Cottage hadn't noticed. Not a single snowflake touched its pristine paint job, and the journey here had been as smooth as it was on any summer day. 

"So his dreams are becoming reality," Crowley summarised, leaning back against the kitchen worktop. 

"Pretty much," Newt said, before Anathema could try to say anything vaguely more nuanced. 

"The poor boy is experiencing a perfectly normal cold," Aziraphale chipped in, standing beside the demon. "It should go away on its own, and with it, any of these... blips."

He gestured vaguely at the last word, and finished there as if that solved it. Anathema frowned.

"Can't you two do something?" She said, exasperated. "Heal him?"

"Kids need their immune systems," Crowley said with a shrug. "We can't do this every time he gets sick."

"So we just have to... wait it out?" Newt said nervously, gripping his coffee cup tightly.

"That would be best," Aziraphale said sagely. He saw the witch's irritable expression, and sighed sympathetically. "I know you care for him, dear. As do we, but must not interfere."

"Never works out for us," the demon mumbled, adjusting his glasses. 

"Quite," the angel replied, making for the living room, where Adam was watching cartoons.

The demon followed, and they paused in the doorway together, sharing a warm affection for the child. He was swaddled amongst colourful bohemian blankets, sipping one of Anathema's lemon-and-ginger home remedies. Soft music flowed out from the TV.

"Take a moment to think of just... flexibility, love and trust," Adam mumbled along with the lyrics. He looked up as Crowley knocked on the doorframe.

"Room for two more?" He asked.

Adam smiled tiredly. "Always," he said. 

Aziraphale and Crowley sat either side of him. "What's this?" the angel asked, in the tone of a parent who knows they probably won't understand the answer. 

"Steven Universe," he said, leaning against the Principality's arm almost without thinking. "S'a cartoon."

"I can see that," he said, wrapping an arm around him. He met eyes with Crowley, who smiled so sweetly, and so relaxed, that he felt the emotion pass to him. It was a shame that he couldn't sense love from other supernatural beings like he could with humans; he would have liked to know what Crowley loved the most. 

"Sleepy, kiddo?" the demon asked, reaching over to play with his hair.

"Yeah... But what if I dream again?" He said worriedly. "I could hurt someone."

"You won't hurt anyone, child," Aziraphale said softly. "We'll stay close by and look after things, won't we, dear?"

"Course," he agreed. 

Seemingly satisfied with that, Adam shut his eyes. He was snoring quietly within seconds. In his head, flickering shadows and strange images began to form, drawing on deep wells of power. Some of them lost their grip, swept away in the constant motion of his flu-addled mind. One semi-coherent dream began to play out. He saw it in snippets.

He was on the sofa, but it was cold. He shivered and shuddered, feeling an odd heat building behind his eyes. Despite his discomfort, he was still watching TV. It wasn't a cartoon like before; it was the kitchen, filmed from the corner. His godfathers were there; the angel and demon. They were talking to Anathema. Crowley began to walk across the kitchen, but bumped into Aziraphale. Everything slowed down. For a split second, it felt like time had stopped altogether. Adam squinted, leaning forwards, and reached out to touch the screen. His fingers brushed against it. He jumped back, a shock of electricity shooting up his arm. The screen abruptly whited out. He shielded his eyes with a cry. 

In the waking world, Aziraphale and Crowley had retreated from Adam's side. They still had to settle the water with Anathema, and hopefully bring her around to their way of thinking. They joined her and Newt in the kitchen.

"He's resting," the angel anounced. He looked hard at the witch. "Now, I must encourage you not to try any occult remedies."

She gave a derisive snort. "I don't do that kind of magic."

"All the better, then," Crowley said. His voice was hard, and his body language had closed up completely. He hoped he was being intimidating enough to back Aziraphale up. He went to continue, making his way across the room. His shoulder nudged Aziraphale's by mistake.

A bomb exploded in the kitchen. Or, at least it seemed that way. Crowley shrieked, or maybe it was Aziraphale, as searing heat and bone-deep cold crashed over them in waves. A high-pitched ringing noise shimmered through the air. Everything was white. Everything... 

Aziraphale - or perhaps Crowley - was dazed and blinded. His head swam. A vast and sprawling conciousness permeated the surroundings. He could feel the stricken Anathema, the terrified Newt, and the dark and terrible power sleeping in the next room. Everything was moving. His whole essence crawled restlessly. His thoughts stumbled over one another, the end of one sentence muddling into the start of another. It reminded him of being incorporeal, trying to find a body to possess, but... no. Something was changing. Out of the shifting, insubstantial mist, there came a sense of a body. An arm here, a leg there...

He blinked. His vision cleared. Looking down at himself, he realised that he was no longer Crowley, and nor was he Aziraphale. He froze. He had been convinced, just a moment ago, that he was both. He was two. The body encasing his form said differently.

He was now tremendously tall and thin, though not in the way Crowley had been. This man was leaner, more powerfully built, and none of his bones stuck out anymore. Snakeskin brogues covered his feet, under a pair of sheer black trousers and a gold-buckled belt. His whole body was still shaking uncontrollably. 

Tentatively, his broad hands ran up the length of his arm, along the sleeve of his black overcoat, as if he was trying to convince himself that he was real. A pair of snake-like eyes, vibrant green, tracked them as if they were alien to him. Beneath the coat, there was a beige waistcoat adorned by gleaming golden buttons, stamped with apples, over a stiff-collared white dress shirt. The outfit was finished with a wine-red tartan ascot, distinctly Aziraphale in style.

His long fingers moved from his arm, tracing up the unfamiliar contours of his face, finding sharp cheekbones, a square jaw, and a set of tinted horn-rimmed reading glasses upon his turned-up nose. He grabbed a handful of his hair: it was soft, fluffy, and slightly unkempt. It had a pale but distinct ginger colour, far more mellow than Crowley's had been. 

Finally, he levelled his gaze at Anathema. She clung to the kitchen worktop, gaping in awe and terror. Newt had passed out by her feet. Shakily, he pushed himself up off the floor. Somehow, he must have toppled over as he came into being. His knees almost buckled as he stood, but he caught himself against the wall. He straightened himself out, immediately smacking his head against the low ceiling.

"Bother!" He snapped, followed by a serpentine hiss of frustration. He rubbed the sore spot on his head, confused and disorientated. He was taller now; by around two feet or so. He stood at roughly eight feet, give or take a bit (on second thought, perhaps it wasn't a low roof, as such...)

Anathema swallowed a lump in her throat. "Uh... hey," she called, her mouth dry. A set of bright green eyes snapped onto her. 

"Hey - lo," he stuttered, as if he couldn't quite decide which greeting he wanted to use. He half-raised his hand, as if to wave, but faltered. He frowned. "Erm... you wouldn't happen to know what just happened, would you?"

Slowly, Anathema nodded, her eyes sliding over to the doorway. Adam stood, staring wide-eyed at the stranger in the kitchen. There was a beat of silence. The tall man - men? - stared at the antichrist. 

"You're... you're real," Adam said quietly, in subdued awe.


	2. One, In Mind And Name

Adam was as stunned as anyone else. He had dreamt this scene. Just a moment ago, he saw the fusion of Crowley-and-Aziraphale form on the TV screen in his head. He hadn't thought it was possible that it would really happen. He struggled for words.

"Adam!" the tall stranger cried suddenly. He looked down at himself, at the odd but somehow harmonious mingling of styles and characteristics he had become. "Wh - what - who - are we?"

He had stumbled over his words, stalling and restarting as if he was re-learning speech. Anathema lifted her unconscious boyfriend into a chair, and turned at the two (three?) stunned people. 

"Adam, sweetie... Please tell me you know what this is," she said, with as much patience and understanding as she could muster. She knew it wasn't his fault. 

He nodded, sniffling. "It's a fusion," he said, looking at the tall being. "Two people, together... like they're one person instead."

"That - uh - explains... things," the fusion said haltingly, cradling his head as if it ached. It did, a bit. "We - I - um, they, I mean... Crowley and Aziraphale, they aren't - me."

His voice was deep and warm and cosy, like a good fire on a bitingly cold night. On the odd few words, it distorted and split into two more familiar voices, before becoming one again. Adam walked up to him, staring up apologetically.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, his bloodshot eyes going a little damp. "I didn't mean to..."

"It's - okay," he replied, getting onto his knees to get closer to Adam's height. Even then, he had to stoop slightly. "Can you fix me - us - uh, them?"

He squinted for a moment, as if concentrated very hard, before sighing. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "No," he said. "I can't do anything while I'm sick. It's all random and... and I don't like it."

The fusion winced. "It's odd, yes," he said. It was the first thing he'd said to the boy that didn't stutter on the way out. 

"It's like from the cartoon I was watching," Adam said, hoping an explanation might help. The fusion's eyes were wide and inquisitive, and might have been slightly unnerving if you hadn't met Crowley beforehand, or felt one of Aziraphale's probing stares. "That's why I dreamt you up. Fusions in the show, they're like - like relationships. If you communicate, and trust each other, you're strong and stable. If you can't work together, you split up again."

"And... if I become them," he said, taking each word slowly and smoothly this time. "Will it be the same? I won't get... mixed up?"

"Shouldn't do," he said brightly. "So, you just need to argue, and you'll be back to normal."

"Right," he replied. Adam took a few steps back, and Anathema joined him in staring expectantly at the fusion. He blinked. "Um... argue, right. Arguments. Argue, argue, arguuuue..."

He tapped on his knees idly. He stared at the floor. How could he start a fight with himself? He tried thinking something awful, like... like something racist. It didn't work. He didn't really mean it, and he knew that, so why would he start fighting himself over it? He hugged his forearms, as if to draw himself closer. He felt so complete, so contented... It wasn't so much the sensation of an emptiness that had been filled, but more of a sense of tremendous growth. His very essence had flourished. What's more, he couldn't find who he once was. Their memories were there, from both sides. He knew them. He didn't have to look, to know how each of them felt. He looked at his hands. They were crossed over at the wrists; manicured fingernails, tapering to sharp points at the tips, long fingers, broad palms... They were identical. One in the same, like it had always been that way. 

"Well?" Adam's voice cut through his thoughts. His eyes snapped back up.

"Um..." he said slowly, his gaze sliding across the kitchen, wondering how to phrase this. Choosing his words was the hardest part of being existent so far. It was the only time he had a sense of two diverging paths: one who wanted to speak in a lazy drawl, and the other who felt the compulsion to annunciate every syllable. 

"He can't," Anathema realised. The fusion ducked his head, fiddling with his hands. "Can you?"

"Somewhat difficult to start a fight with someone who isn't there," he muttered. A middle ground between the two speech paths was beginning to emerge.

Adam frowned. "What?"

"They aren't here. I am them," he reiterated, jumping to his feet and slamming his head into the ceiling for a second time. "Ffffffffudgemuffins. That hurt."

While he was clutching his head, he continued to speak through gritted teeth. "I'm just me. I can't disagree with myself. It seems terribly... terribly counterintuitive."

Adam and Anathema shared a glance. There was some general humming, a whispered conversation... The fusion dusted the flakes of ceiling plaster out of his hair. He began to appraise himself whilst the humans talked. He had already lost interest, anyway. He ran his fingers along his new clothes, somehow a mixture of Crowley's dark, silken fabrics and Aziraphale's thicker, more cosy materials. Stooping slightly, he wandered over to a mirror. His mouth dropped open as he saw his own face for the first time.

He turned it to the side. He turned to the other. He adjusted the small reading glasses halfway up the bridge of his nose, looking curiously at the tinted glass. His eyes, he had to say, were stunning. The angel in him had always liked serpentine eyes, and the new colour suited them well. He poked at his own cheek, feeling the unfamiliar bone structure under the skin. His eyes wandered down to his neck. He frowned, but his mouth twisted into a fond smile.

"Tartan ascot? Really?" he scoffed to himself, feeling the scratchy material. "Well... it may not be stylish, but I suppose I can just about pull it off."

Someone cleared their throat behind him. He pivoted on his heel, feeling as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have done. The thought of misbehaving somehow sent both a shock of fear, and a thrill right down every nerve. It was intoxicating. He was liking this new form more and more...

"Done admiring yourself, Mister Vanity?" Anathema asked, quirking a brow.

He scoffed, tugging haughtily on his lapels in an Aziraphale-ish idiosyncrasy. "I'll have you know, I wasn't being vain. I was merely proud," he said.

"Isn't that worse?" Adam said, scrunching up his nose. He'd been learning a bit about sins in his school RE lessons recently, and pride was definitely frowned upon, he'd picked up that much. 

The fusion's mouth twitched into a small smirk. "I suppose it is," he said, as if very mildly amused by that. 

"Listen, we were thinking," Anathema said. "If you can't unfuse by yourself, we just need to wait until Adam recovers, and he can split you up then. We think."

He nodded. "That's... well, sensible."

Adam suddenly lit up, rushing over to him and putting a crick in his neck to look him in the eye. "That won't be for a bit, so until then," he said, eyes sparkling despite his runny nose and slight headache, "I think you need a name."

He mulled it over, one claw-like fingernail raised thoughtfully to his chin. "How would we go about that?"

"I was thinking, why don't we just mash your two old names together? Like a - a - portmantel!"

"Portmanteau, child," he corrected. He felt a flicker of Nanny Ashtoreth come back to him, in that moment. 

"Yeah, s'what I said," he replied, dragging the fusion over to sit down. He folded himself awkwardly onto a chair that was several sizes too small. He spared a quick glance for the unconcious Newt, who had slumped forward onto the table. He wasn't sure whether to sneer, or pity him. He decided on an awkward glance, an ineffectual prod, and then to pretend like he wasn't there.

"Okay, names," Anathema said, taking out a notepad and fountain pen. "Aziraphale and Crowley. Um... Aziraley? Crowphale?"

The fusion grimaced. "Try another."

"Crowziraphale," Adam tried.

"It's a bit of a mouthful, don't you think?" he countered, tapping his nails on the table, leaving slight indents where the claw-tips bit into the soft wood.

"Azowley... Arowphale," Anathema muttered under her breath, writing down each name and crossing them out as each was rejected in turn. "Aziracrow, Azrowley, Crowraphale...? No?"

"Many of these sound very similar to one another," he said. He twisted the gold rings on his fingers around. "How about something... shorter, perhaps? A tad more - ah - punchy, one might say? Something with a bit of panache."

Adam snatched the paper, ignoring Anathema's protests about manners. He looked hard at the names. His imagination had always served him well until now. "Aziraphale, Crowley. Cro- Zira... Azir - ley..." he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. He looked up at the fusion. "What about Azley?"

He sat back in his chair, which creaked dangerously under eight feet of solid angel-demon abomination. He hummed thoughtfully. He rolled the name back and forth in his head, running it through a multitude of thought processes that might never occurred to him, if he were two people instead. Is the name unique? Is it tasteful? Most importantly... did it represent all of him? He smiled. All of the above, if he did say so himself. 

"I like it," Azley said finally.


	3. Somebody To Love

Azley smacked his head on the roof for the third time. 

"Ngk!" he cried, gripping his skull in both hands with frustration. "Right! That's it, I've had quite enough of this roof. I'm going outside."

Half-stooped, he made for the door, only to be caught by the sleeve by a small hand. "But it's snowy out there," Adam protested. "You'll get cold."

"I can just miracle it away," he said, pushing on. His spine was starting to ache already, and a breath of fresh air might do him good. 

With a sigh, Anathema trailed the two of them out into the front garden. Azley's large feet crunched into the snow, making deep impressions right down to the garden path. Adam shivered by his side, rubbing his arms. The fusion put his hands on his hips, surveying the scene. He looked at his hand, flexing the fingers thoughtfully.

"Let's see if I can still do this..." he muttered, and snapped his fingers.

Anathema shrieked. The snow had disappeared, it was true... but so had all the turf, the fence, the stone slabs and the plants. The once-lush space had been reduced to a barren wasteland at the foot of the rolling hills beyond, which were still coated in snow. 

"Uh oh," Azley said, tugging at his collar awkwardly. He gave the distraught Anathema a sheepish smile, full of pointed teeth. "Honest mistake, child, I swear."

"How does this even happen?" she cried, gesturing wildly at the ruined patches of earth, and holes where the roots of her shrubs had been torn out. 

Azley looked between the former garden, and his hand, with a kind of innocent curiosity and smug self-satisfaction. "It seems... I'm more powerful than they were," he said finally. 'They', in this sense, obviously meant Crowley and Aziraphale. "I don't know my own strength."

"Well - fix it!" she snapped.

"Hm? Oh, yes, of course," he said, feeling somewhat scatterbrained. He snapped his fingers again and, with a distinct whump, the greenery returned to the garden. The only indicator of the snow, now masked by tall hedges, was the biting wind that occasionally swept over them. 

He turned to Anathema. "Happy?"

"Yes," she said tersely, shrugging off her coat to give it to Adam. "I am now."

He nodded, and began to wander back and forth across the garden in a motion that might have been considered pacing. The whole action seemed ill-thought through. Azley's arms were drawn up close to his body, and his spine was ramrod straight. From the hips down, it was all snake rules. His posture-perfect top half swayed around comically as his legs took long, pendulum-swing strides at a leisurely pace. It looked as if he was trying to do a waltz for one, performed in a straight(ish) line, back and forth.

Adam climbed onto the bench on the lawn, watching him for a minute. "Azley," he said.

"Yes, child?" he replied, his intense green eyes turned on the boy.

"Do you still have wings?" he asked inquisitively, thinking back to when he had last seen them, amongst the vast white expanses of sand in a timeless desert. Azley stopped dead.

"Hm," he said thoughtfully, his expression curiously blank. He took a deep breath, and clasped his hands just under his ribcage. For a split second, he looked very much like Aziraphale.

There was a sharp crack, a pop of a displaced joint, followed by a long and pained groan from the fusion. Then, four enormous wings burst from his back, spraying soft and downy feathers everywhere. Anathema gave a slight exclamation of shock. Azley steadied himself on the bench, and spread out his wings to get a decent look.

They had grown, dwarfing Crowley and Aziraphale's wings by some margin. What's more, they were a whole new colour. All four wings were a deep gunmetal grey, metallic and gleaming like fine jewellery in the muted winter sun. Each feather had a vibrant iridescent shine, gleaming in all the colours of the rainbow wherever the light hit them. 

"I say, this is... this is a thing," Azley breathed, running his hands over his new wings in awe. Crowley had often wondered what Aziraphale's downy white feathers might feel like, balled up in his fist, and now he knew. He suddenly blushed, his heart jumping in his chest. Oh. Oh, dear... Aziraphale, too, had been equally as fascinated by the thought of finding himself enveloped in Crowley's velvety black wings. Bugger. Had he really been pining after himself for so long? 

"Hey. Azley?" Anathema said, waving her hand in front of his face. With a start, his eyes refocused.

"Ah! Uh - um - yes?" he said, straightnening up abruptly. 

He flattened down his waistcoat, ruffled his hair, did anything he could to stop his hands wandering back over to those gorgeous wings. He wanted to stand there for hours, indulging himself in their softness, their warmth, their smooth textures... to feel himself finally working in harmony, at the same pace, in sync. Not too fast, not too slow. He shook his head to clear it. His mind was beginning to wander down a rabbit hole, and this really was a conversation he should have with himself after he had become two people again. It was too easy to get carried away like this. 

"You okay?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. Adam snickered.

"I think he likes them," he said, nodding at the wings.

Azley blushed even more furiously, looking away as his fingers kneaded restlessly at his lips. He cleared his throat, and the wings suddenly vanished again. "They are - er - quite nice, yes," he said, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Bentley!"

"What?" Anathema said, frowning at the sudden outburst.

"I should really check on the Bentley. See if she still recognises - er - us," he said, pivoting slightly and hurrying over to the garden gate in his trademark odd sway of a walk. 

Adam laughed, hopping off the bench to follow him. Azley found the car exactly where he'd left it. He stared at it for a long moment, working out how he felt towards it. Instinctively, he loved it. He'd had it from new. It turned all those questionable bebop songs into Queen, which he really quite liked, when it all came down to it. He approached it, laying his manicured hand gently on the bonnet. He felt its conciousness stir curiously, not quite recognising its master. His kind smile was reflected back in the shine of the black paint. 

"Hello, dear," he purred, leaning down to speak to her properly. "We haven't met, but I think we're going to like one another very much."

Without thinking, he popped open the driver's side door. Anathema frowned at his back. "Where are you going?" she demanded, placing her hands on Adam's shoulders to stop him getting in as well. 

"Just for a little jaunt around the block. Won't be a tick," he said vaguely, giving a limp-wristed wave. He tapped his nails against the roof with a mischievous smirk, speaking both directly to the car, and to himself. "Let's raise some Hell, shall we?"  
He folded himself into the driver's seat, finding it immediately too small. The Bentley was nothing if accommodating, and she found herself already liking this stranger. He seemed very familiar. Quite without any input from him, the seat slid back, the steering wheel adjusted to a more comfortable height and the roof seemed to politely avoid hitting his head. He beamed.

"Cheers," he said, turning the ignition. 

The Bentley leapt free from the lane like a restless panther, cutting through the snow as easily as the air. The radio blared into life. I Want It All roared proudly from the speakers, pouring out of the open windows and across half of Lower Tadfield. Forgetting himself, Azley began singing along. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the window, he smiled dumbly as the cold air whipped across his face. The speed was thrilling, but terrifying. He ought to slow down, really, but who was keeping score these days? Not him. He was free. He bared his sharp teeth in an insatiable grin at that thought. Now, now more than ever, charging down the snow-laden country roads in his beloved car, he was truly free. He was himself. He was on his own side, now and forever.

He laughed, hooted and hollered as the Bentley skidded to a halt. He panted heavily. Both hands were now gripping the wheel, but he wasn't sure when he'd put them there. He swung himself out of the car, looking around at where he'd found himself. This was the town centre, buried deep in snow. He hummed thoughtfully. He shut the door behind him, and began to wander. He clasped his hands loosely behind his back as he went.

"Funny old place, isn't it?" He said, looking around. No one responded. He frowned, looking over his shoulder as if he expected to see someone there. Perhaps he expected a portly man in a bow tie and white coat... Or maybe, he had anticipated a thin redhead in dark glasses. He blinked. It was a blip, a small glitch in perception; it was just... He did not feel alone. He was together, as one. He felt as if he could look over and see them both, the angel and demon perched on each shoulder... He rubbed his arm uncomfortably.

"Well this is odd," he muttered, but did his best to shake it off. He wasn't used to this. He'd always had someone to bounce off, to bicker with, to glance longingly at from the corner of his eye. He caught his own eye in the dark glass of a closed shopfront.

He still found himself handsome. He was tall, and rather dashing, if he did say so himself... But then, he would, wouldn't he? There was no hiding it anymore. Crowley was in love with Aziraphale. Aziraphale was in love with Crowley. He felt, knew it, with every fibre of his being. He didn't need a sixth sense to know what it was. He was neither angel nor demon, not ethereal nor occult. He was made of love. The revelation finally hit him like a train. It had been six thousand years, all that time... He had never known. He was idiot - no, in fact, he was two idiots. He had wasted so much time, lost so much, passed over so many signs, tortured himself for eons upon eons never knowing how happy he could have been... He wanted to cry. He wanted to run away, he wanted to hide, he wanted to sleep for a thousand years, he wanted to eat his feelings, he -

He didn't want all that. They did. 

He gave a sharp gasp, clutching his chest. He felt himself splitting, breaking, snapping from within and unraveling at the seams. A strangled groan escaped his throat. The noise curdled in the air, distorting and straining into two voices. His vision blurred. He looked at his hands, the way they faded and glowed and wavered on this plane of reality. He was seeing double.

There was a loud crack, and two resounding thuds as an angel and a demon dropped into the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeeeh sorry didn't proofread again. It's late and I was excited to post this. Enjoy xx


	4. Stronger Than You

Crowley's wide yellow eyes stared across at Aziraphale. The angel stared back, his chest heaving. The snow daren't dampen their clothes; as Crowley might say, they were 'having a moment'.

"Angel..." the demon breathed, swallowing hard. His throat was dry.

Aziraphale's head was spinning. Memories of the last hour raced through his head like a reel of film, deafeningly loud and drowning out his sixth sense with the sheer, unadulterated love rolling off them in waves. "Crowley," he croaked. He shivered, though he wasn't cold. "We have been fools, haven't we?"

He gave a bitter, amused laugh. "Just a bit, yeah," he said, making the understatement of the last six millennia. He picked himself off the ground, dusting off the imaginary dust that clung to his clothes. He held out his hand to Aziraphale who, hesitating for only a moment, took it.

They stood close for a moment, feeling the warmth between them. Aziraphale pressed his lips into a thin line. He opened his mouth to speak. Crowley did the same, and they ended up talking over one another.

"I - "

"We - "

They faltered. "Uh, you first," Crowley said, gesturing vaguely and shuffling back slightly, out of his personal space.

"No no, you," he replied, folding his hands in front of him to stop himself from fidgeting. They were acting like a pair of teenage humans with their first crush.

"You go, honestly, it's not important."

Aziraphale huffed, shaking his head and tutting. "Heavens, how did we function as one being?" he exclaimed in exasperation. "Say your piece first, I insist."

Crowley reluctantly nodded, tension gripping his shoulders. "Right," he said tightly. "Um... Look, angel, I know that - that you feel pretty strongly about me, and it's mutual, of course it is, you felt it too... But... It doesn't mean we have to - to go any faster. I can wait. I can wait as long as you - ngk!"

The demon found the second half of his sentence completely muffled by a pair of lips being pressed against his. His brain cut out for a moment. When Aziraphale pulled back, frowning slightly, Crowley's cheeks were deep red and his slitted pupils blown wide. The angel wore a slightly wounded look.

"Crowley...?" he said quietly, in a heartbreakingly vulnerable voice. The demon almost frowned, then he realised why Aziraphale was so worried. In the midst of the panic, surreality and utter joy exploding behind his eyes while the angel kissed him... he'd forgotten to kiss back. His heart jolted.

He sucked in a sharp breath, impulsively clamping his hands around Aziraphale's face, dragging him in for another kiss. Relief flooded his being as he kissed back, and he didn't need to be fused to know that Aziraphale felt the same.

After five (ten, twenty, thirty...) minutes of making out in the abandoned street, they wrenched themselves apart again. They returned to the Bentley, slumping into their seats and trying to catch their breaths. The familiar atmosphere of the car grounded them; they were enveloped in fragrant leather, cologne and that new car smell which still lingered even after all these years. They looked at one another.

"We need to talk about Azley," Crowley said, in awe of the memories swimming around in his head, now he cared to look at them.

"Yes, he was... he was rather something, wasn't he?" Aziraphale panted, his good posture slightly lax for once. Not too lax, though. He had standards.

"He was better than that. He was us," he enthused, turning his whole body to face him. Around them, the car readjusted itself back to its usual size, realising that its usual master had reinstalled himself. "I can't even find myself in his memories. It was - was - "

"Cathartic," Aziraphale finished.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Smartarse," he said. He ran his fingers absently over his lapels, looking down at himself. "I liked his clothes."

The angel hummed contentedly. "Yes, they were rather good," he agreed. He smiled a sly smile. "So tall and dashing, too, don't you agree?"

"He gets that from me," he boasted.

"The height, certainly," he said, smirking and casually examining his manicured nails. Crowley gave a melodramatic gasp, feigning offence.

"Smug bastard."

"Thank you," he said. He gave Crowley a Look, which was fully deserving of a capital L. It had hooded eyes, a knowing smile, and it made the demon feel suddenly very hot under the collar. "And let's not forget his wings, either."

Crowley may have let out a small, almost pained, whine. He'd deny it if you asked.

"Fuck, I loved those wings," he said, gritting his teeth slightly.

"We both did. He did," he said. He pursed his lips, staring pensively into his lap. "It is a shame he's gone."

Crowley suddenly snapped out of his wing-addled stupor. He sat up slightly, his nails digging into his seat. "What?"

"He's gone. We can't fuse, Crowley, this isn't a cartoon," he said sadly, gesturing vaguely at the world around them. "Nor should we hope that Adam dreams of him again. It's too dangerous."

Crowley's heart sank. His shoulders sagged a little, and Azley's memories now felt more bittersweet in his mind. He'd never feel so complete again. He'd never feel Aziraphale's smile like it was his own. He'd never be Azley. In his brooding, he didn't notice Aziraphale edge closer to him until his warm hand laid on top of his. He looked up, meeting his stunning, sympathetic blue gaze. A soft, unbidden smile drifted across his face. Sure, perhaps he wasn't Azley anymore... but maybe he didn't need to be. There were other ways to be together.

"Do you know what's nice about being two people, dear?" Aziraphale said, his fingers brushing across Crowley's cheek, over his snake tattoo. He leaned into the touch.

"What?" he murmured.

"I get to look at you," he said.

Crowley gave a snort of laughter, batting his hand away playfully. "You old sap, that's revolting," he chuckled.

"I know. Isn't it wonderful?" he said, beaming. He leaned forward, catching Crowley's jawline with his lips, and began peppering his face with featherlight kisses.

"H - hey!" the demon cried half-heartedly, trying in vain to wipe a stupid smile off his face. He tried to dodge, but the angel was quick, and wily. "Not in front of the Bentley!"

They returned to Jasmine Cottage, finding Anathema and Adam nursing Newt back to conciousness. They came in, and Adam charged into the hallway. "Azley!" he cried, then skidded to a halt. He frowned. "Oh. You're split up."

"Yes," Aziraphale said, squeezing Crowley's hand gently. Adam's eyes drifted down to their entwined fingers. "But not because we argued. We just... came to a realisation."

The antichrist wrinkled his nose. "Yuck," he said. Then, he gave a broad grin. "Happy for you, though! Come on, Anathema made lemonade."

They joined Newt and Anathema in the kitchen. They told a brief, censored version of what had happened during their outing, and that they were now very happy. Newt was a bit put out that he never got to meet Azley. The rest of the afternoon passed by easily, however, and by the time Adam had to go to bed, he was far too tired out to have any dreams at all. It was peaceful.

Then, the blizzard hit. For two days, snow came down in droves, piling up on doorsteps and blocking roads. The radio advised everyone not to leave their homes (advice which was useless, save for the lucky few who could still wrestle their front doors open). Mr and Mrs Young called Anathema to check on Adam a few times, before the phone lines cut out. Anathema was both a practical and resourceful woman, who would not be beaten by the snow. Often, Newton (armed with snow shovel and good intentions) was just not enough to handle the situation, and she regularly had to drag an angel and/or demon, metaphorically kicking and screaming, out of the little love nest they'd built in the loft. The only person who saw much of them was Adam, and that was only because they liked to come down to coo over their godson together, like a couple of old women, every few hours. Being a witch, she was fairly unperturbed. Being not-a-computer-engineer-but-certainly-very-human, Newt had mixed feelings about the knowledge that two supernatural entities were nesting in the attic. He'd made a joke about calling pest control once, but Anathema had tapped him over the head with a newspaper and told him to shut it before Crowley heard him.

Then, the snow stopped falling. In the attic, Crowley stirred. He cracked open one eye, pushing the blankets down off his face. He couldn't move, not with an unconcious principality planted firmly on top of him, but he could listen. Judging by the cold, white sunlight filtering in, it was daytime. It was strangely quiet downstairs. Usually, there was always something going on. Adam might be watching TV, or Newt might be listening to his girlfriend rant about something that he didn't understand, but always tried to. All was still. On some level, he might even say it felt familiar, somehow. Unnerved, Crowley poked Aziraphale.

"Hey. Angel, wake up," he urged. The Principality's eyelids fluttered, then squeezed shut. He muttered something incoherent. "Angel. Up."

"Five more millennia..." he groaned.

"Even I'm not that lazy," Crowley said, forcibly rolling him off of him this time. Aziraphale grunted, now waking up and rubbing his eyes.

"What on earth has gotten into you, dear?" he said. He pushed himself up, throwing off the excess of fussily selected blankets they'd gathered around themselves. They may be mostly human-shaped, but angelic-type beings would always be part bird, and birds took their nests very seriously. "You never wake up first."

"Sshh, listen," he said quietly, pointing down at the floor. Aziraphale paused, listening thoughtfully to the silence. Not even the air moved.

He hummed, frowning. "I see what you mean. That's not right," he said.

Careful not to step on a creaky floorboard, they got to their feet. Crowley lifted the hatch, letting Aziraphale drop down into the corridor first. He followed swiftly, letting the opening shut itself silently. Side by side, they crept down the hall, glancing into the bedrooms as they went. No sign of anyone...

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm as he reached the top of the stairs. At the bottom, Newt stood frozen in place. His face was set into a panicked expression. He was halfway to the floor, clearly stumbling over his own feet before something had turned him into little more than a wax model. It was disturbing. The demon stepped down, glancing back and forth for any sign of who could have done this. He waved a hand in front of Newt's face. Anxiety prickled over his skin. He suddenly realised why this felt so familiar.

"Angel," he whispered, fixing him with a wide-eyed stare. "Time isn't moving."

"Good lord," he replied, almost inaudible. "Can you fix it? Is this Adam's doing?"

"I don't know," he said, sidestepping Newt's statuesque body and moving onto the ground floor.

They found Anathema running out of the kitchen, suspended midair as the time stop caught her mid-stride. Her skirts hung like seafoam around her, her flyaway hair mirroring its eclectic shapes. Aziraphale followed her line of sight, and tugged on Crowley's sleeve. He pointed at the living room door. In the crack under the door, shadows moved. Something rustled. The angel tensed up slightly, straining his ears... He heard something like a whimper.

"Adam," he said out loud, and bolted toward the door.

Crowley gave a strangled cry, trying to stop him, but it was too late. He burst unceremoniously into the room, poised to smite the first thing he laid eyes on. It wouldn't have done much good anyway. All breath left his body as a pair of unnerving purple eyes turned to face him.

"Gabriel," he said, squaring up as Crowley joined him to block the exit.

The archangel held Adam by the shirt collar. The child was gagged, with tears streaming down his face and coarse ropes binding his arms by his sides. There was a silver pocket watch in Gabriel's hand; by the way it radiated a strange lilac aura, Aziraphale guessed that was what had stopped time.

"Well, if it isn't traitor one and traitor two," he sneered, dropping Adam unceremoniously to the floor. Crowley flinched as the boy hit the ground with a painful thud. Gabriel gestured at the child at his feet. "Here to save your master, are we?"

The principality clenched his fists. "He isn't our master. He's our godson, and you've no right to be here," he replied firmly. "Leave, and we shall say no more about it."

Gabriel pulled an expression of mock surprise. Exaggerating his movements, he looked around the room, over his shoulder, and spread his arms wide. "You and whose army, Aziraphale?" he sneered, a greasy corporate smile stretching his face.

"Adam could eat you for breakfast, you jumped-up purple chicken," Crowley snapped. He bared his fangs, prepared to maul him if he had to. "Back off."

"See, that's the beauty of all this," he replied, totally at ease. He'd been worried when they first came in, but when they didn't immediately attack, he began to suspect that they could be bluffing. "The winter, the snow... He was bound to get sick eventually. It comes with being human. You'd know, demon. You've been scrubbing around down here in the dirt longer than anyone."

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. "It was you!" he cried, and Gabriel smiled victoriously. His eyes flicked down to Adam, to his bloodshot eyes and runny nose. "You sent the blizzard..."

"I know. Master stroke, don't you think?" he boasted. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He flicked his wrist, throwing Aziraphale across the room like a broken doll. Crowley shrieked. Luckily, he missed the wall, crashing through the window. Gabriel watched with detached amusement, his hands in his pockets, as the demon scrambled over the broken glass after his lover.

A snow drift had broken his fall. Crowley grabbed his hand, pulling him free with shaking hands. Aziraphale gripped the back of his head, wobbling and groaning in pain. The demon fussed over him, already mentally replaying the moment he had been ripped from his side over and over again. It was like having his heart torn out. Behind them, glass crunched.

Gabriel had joined them outside. His pale clothes contrasted starkly with the red brick wall behind him. Overhead, a murder of crows hung motionless upon an impassive canvas of white sky. "Not so tough now, are you?" he said. He lifted his chin smugly. "I knew you were nothing to be afraid of, either of you."

"You're delusional," Crowley spat, venom flicking from his lips. Yellow began to overtake his eyes. "Come one step closer and I'll eat your soul, I swear I'll do it."

Gabriel nodded, understanding. He took one clear, pronounced step forward. Crowley's face fell slightly, his breathing laboured. The archangel laughed at him, mocking him with his eyes.

"I'm delusional, am I?" he said. "You're a joke, Crawly. Why don't you just run back to London and, I don't know, do whatever it is treacherous demons do. Some of us have a rogue antichrist to get rid of."

"Crowley," Aziraphale muttered. Gabriel had turned to go back inside, but fixed his gaze sharply back on him. "His name is Crowley, and we are not going anywhere without Adam."

The archangel rolled his eyes. "Right, my mistake," he said, and sighed as if they were being far more difficult than need be. He spun around to face them again. "I didn't want to do this, you know."

He raised his palm. It all happened too quickly. Lightning began to crackle around his hand, charging a fatal blow, the unbearable heat melting the snow beneath it. Aziraphale's eyes widened. Crowley heard a scream, which he would later realise was his own, and threw himself around his angel, wings outstretched in the vain hope it might absorb the attack. Light overtook the garden, blotting out the world. An explosion wracked the cottage.

Gabriel couldn't see through the dust and debris thrown up by the blow. Nothing moved. He needn't check; nothing short of an archangel could have survived that blast, and even then, they'd have some scars to show for it. It was over. He gave a self-satisfied smile, looking forward to recounting the tale of how he had heroically vanquished the rogue elements on earth when he got back to Heaven. He dusted off his hands, about to walk away. Then, a shape caught his eye. The cloud of earth and snow was beginning to settle. He squinted. Could it be...?

Slowly, a silhouette began to unfold itself. It was extraordinarily tall, thin, but well-muscled. Gabriel didn't recognise it. He flinched as four enormous, feathered appendages burst from its back, clearing the dust cloud with a single flap of its wings. He shielded his eyes, coughing slightly as the debris got caught in his mouth. Tentatively, he looked up.

Azley's burning green glare was not forgiving. "You shouldn't have done that," he said darkly. There wasn't a scratch on him, and Gabriel's heart dropped right through his stomach. Whatever this was... it was powerful. It emanated a baffling aura, something bright, mottled with darkness, twisting and changing every instant. It never rested. It was, in a word, chaotic.

"What the - who are you supposed to be?" he exclaimed, affronted by this newcomer. His eyes flicked over him: strange clothes, black-and-beige colours, red hair, iridescent wings... He didn't know of anyone, angel or demon, who looked like this.

He smirked. He raised his hand, running his clawed fingertips gently over the small yin-yang tattoo beside his ear. "Who am I?" he said, delighted to have been asked. "I am occult, and I am ethereal. I am balance, and love. I am light and dark, sun and moon, fury and patience... I am them."

Gabriel scowled. "What the hell am I supposed to take from that?" he said bluntly. He had never understood poetry.

"Simple," Azley said, cracking his knuckles with a perverse grin. "I am stronger than you."

A swift kick with a snakeskin brogue, and Gabriel arched off the ground and into the upper wall of the cottage. Brick dust skittered out, coating what remained of the snow by the cottage. He dropped back down with a crack. He cried out. He'd never broken a bone in corporeal form before and by God, it hurt. He heard footsteps approaching, and scrambled to his feet, clutching his side. Azley's enormous shadow engulfed him. Two unnerving serpentine eyes stared down gleefully at the archangel.

"How's it feel, huh?" he jeered, grabbing Gabriel by the shirt collar, just as he had done to Adam merely a moment ago. "To be the weak one for once?"

He drew back, and Gabriel cringed. The punch dislocated his jaw. He groaned, struggling pathetically against the vice-like grip of the fusion. The next blow broke his nose. The one after that fractured his skull, right along his cheekbone. He would have miracled himself away, but something had gripped him tightly, almost like serpentine coils encircling his metaphysical form. He was uneasily reminded of the ropes he had used to bind Adam. He was trapped, totally at the mercy of this strange creature.

"You don't understand this world. You never did," he growled, spouting all his long-suppressed spite now he had Gabriel in his clutches. "You are nothing more than a bully."

His purple eyes looked up, searching the abomination's face for any sense of familiarity. He seemed to know him, only he had still not really told him who he was. He had just showed up, taken issue with him, and promptly started beating the crap out of him. Had he been a friend of the traitors, perhaps? Had he sensed their deaths that quickly? Then, there it was. Just a flicker, but he saw it. It was in the twitch of his nose, and the slight pout on his lips that was a trademark of the Principality's anger.

"... Aziraphale?" he said in disbelief. It was hard to talk. His words were garbled, but just about coherent. He didn't recognise this corporation, but hints of the angel's influence were threaded through his every movement.

Azley's face twisted into a more Crowley-like smile. Aziraphale was still there, as the glint of smugness in his eye. "He is only half of me," he said. He watched Gabriel trying to piece it all together. "I've already explained it, you idiot. I am ethereal, and occult. I am both."

"Crowley and Aziraphale...?" he mumbled, struggling weakly in his grip.

"Bang on the money, there's a good chap," he said. "Now, before I discorporate you - which I will in just a moment, don't you worry - I need you to do me a favour. It'll help us both long-term, I promise. Nod if you agree. You don't have a choice, by the way."

Gabriel nodded dumbly. He even grunted, just to show willingness. It was humiliating, but necessary. He wanted to make it out of this alive, even if it meant paperwork afterwards. Azley seemed pleased with that, and cleared his throat in a very businesslike manner.

"Very good. I need to you to pass on this message: Earth is under the protection of the fusion Azley. Any being, angel or demon, foolish enough to start interfering where they shouldn't be... well, they'll get what's coming to them," he said snidely, flashing a toothy grin. "Never forget, Gabriel, you're a messenger boy. Always have been, always will be. You'd be dead if not for the fact that someone needs to deliver my warning. Capiche?"

"Uh?" he grunted, blood dribbling down his chin. He was baffled and, though he didn't understand it, concussion was beginning to set in.

Azley rolled his eyes, the white winter sunshine bringing out all the layers of green hidden within them. Human phrases were often lost on angels. "It means, do you understand?"

"Oh. Yeah," Gabriel said with some difficulty, his dislocated jaw not allowing him to form certain letters. Azley nodded, and let him drop back down to stand on his feet. He wobbled unsteadily, nearly keeling over. He might have, if not for the two broad hands that suddenly clamped themselves on either side of his head.

"One last thing, Gabriel, if I could keep you for just a second more," he said, devilishly politely.

He winced. "Yeah?"

Azley's lip curled. "Stay the fuck away from my godson," he said, and snapped his neck in one clean jerk.

Gabriel had no choice but to do as he was told. Azley had been smart, you see. The archangel wouldn't be able to hide his existence if he'd been discorporated; that would mean having to lie on official forms, and that was an offence against God herself. So, word of Earth's protector got out. Many field angels were evacuated from the planet immediately. The demons had gotten excited at first, thinking Heaven was making a fearful retreat from the proxy war... Until they found out about Azley the hard way, too.

Crowley and Aziraphale had been delighted to discover that even after Adam recovered from his cold, and the winter snow melted into oblivion, they retained the ability to fuse and unfuse as they pleased. It was delightful. As individuals, they could talk, and eat, share a bed and a kiss. As a fusion, they could ponder, and remember, and read and share a body in utter contented completion. Each had their pros and cons, but each was steeped in love.

The fusion currently lounged on a deck chair, beneath the stars in an open field. Winter was but a distant memory, and summer nights had brought with them clear skies. It was perfect for some idle astronomy. Azley liked summer nights. It wasn't too warm, or too cold. The breeze felt soft on his skin, like angel feathers, and ruffled the grass beneath his chair. As usual, he wore a dumbstruck smile as a sensation of gentle, comforting love cycled through his whole being in an endless loop. He raised his hand up to the sky, drawing imaginary lines between the constellations with his fingertip. He recalled the ones that Crowley had helped to build. He remembered the nights Aziraphale had spent entranced by them, but never knowing whose labour he was admiring. He had to laugh. It all seemed so funny now, with hindsight.

In the velvety comfort of darkness, he felt himself growing sleepy. He sighed dreamily. A half-formed notion occurred to him, swimming up out of his mind. He didn't try to trace it to its source; it was probably a mutual invention. Its message was simple: _we could stay like this._

He hummed, folding his hands behind his head. "Now, isn't that a thought," he mumbled blearily, setting the issue aside to think about another time. For now, he was happy to sit back, close his eyes and dream of Alpha Centauri: two stars, in a dance so intimate that you would think there was only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I doodled Azley & put it on my tumblr if anyone wants to take a look :)
> 
> https://worse0mens.tumblr.com/post/188706603640/show-chapter-archive

**Author's Note:**

> Did I proof read? No.  
But did I have fun? Yes.


End file.
